


Investments

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fisting, Barebacking, Bottom Jensen Ackles, Choking, Double Anal Penetration, Dubious Consent, First Time, Gangbang, Knotting, Multi, Overstimulation, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Sexism, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, Top Jared Padalecki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29485248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: An alternate take to the prompt for“Callisto”. (Jensen is 21, Jared is 38.)
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, Jensen Ackles/Other(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 67





	Investments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isoughtyouout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isoughtyouout/gifts).



> Note: Original prompt: Omegas are obscenely rare and Alphas are seen as the elite class. Omegas are looked down upon by Betas because they are secretly very threatened by them, so they have manipulated society to make the Omegas’ status as a pleasure slave only entity. Pleasure slaves are only to be used for the full moon.

There are too many rooms in this house. They said he could pick one, any which one; multiple, if he wants. One as a study, for workouts, maybe? A walk-in closet. Jensen spends the first nights downstairs on one of the massive sofas.

So, so much green. A lake, meadows. Jensen observes the small troop of gardeners through a slit in the drawn curtains. If they know he’s here, they don’t acknowledge him.

They didn’t prepare him for this. Those first few days of lingering, waiting, acclimatizing. Paperwork he won’t get to see being finalized, somewhere. Legal regulations he has a vague idea of but the library’s network had been so limited, the books so—lacking. No internet here, no PC. A landline, complete with a list of important numbers.

He keeps his voice steady when it rings, when he picks up. Nodding and, “Yes,” eyes pointed down even though they’re not in the room with him and it doesn’t matter. “Yes, of course. Yes.”

(Gossip, nothing more. Tall, they said, and rather handsome.) Jensen tries to calm himself, to keep his mind blank as he goes upstairs for a groom, a fresh set of clothes. (It’s all—it’s too good to be true, but he doesn’t want to let that thought grow, doesn’t need it. The parking lot on the side of his residence, the massive overhead park-like structure arranged on the property. The polite smile of the chauffeur, the property manager—glasses and no touching and they had been so _polite_ , not derogatory, nothing.) Shower, blow dry, hair gel.

Pluck and work on his brows. The expensive-looking cream, the butter-smooth lip balm. Cologne. Just a white silk shirt, black dress pants. Barefoot, because why not.

As he drapes himself on the sofa, he regrets not talking himself into lunch, earlier. A car, somewhere, drawing close. Jensen breathes, focuses.

The front door opens. So bright with the curtains shoved aside; the click of heels on the marble floor and the guy hollers, “Hey,” and the others hadn’t lied—tall, for sure, endless legs and boots, western ( _Texan_ ), beard; strong bones in his face and he swoops his hat from his head to hold it against his stomach instead. He finds Jensen, then, across the room after looking around like he’s never seen the place before.

Too far away to grasp his scent, but not for long—door closed, and again,

“Hey,” and, “Hi,”

and long legs make long steps, and Jensen keeps looking him in the eye just to make a point. The guy visibly falters for it, but he doesn’t smell like violence when he’s made it, when only a couple of feet part them and he stands, like a tree, overbearing. Like the dozen feet above their heads mean nothing to him, like the space is all his. All him.

Alpha. “I take it you’re Jensen, then?” he says, like he hasn’t hand-picked him specifically, hasn’t paid extra to get a copy of Jensen’s promo skit, that dumb interview they drag all of them through. He says, “Jared,” and extends his hand for Jensen—to shake it. “Padalecki.”

Jensen looks at Jared’s hand, back up.

“That’s not a test,” states the Alpha, but Jensen doesn’t move until there’s discouragement, until that hand retreats. “Okay,” and distant-chuckled, “Fair enough. Sorry.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“What?”

“A drink,” repeats Jensen, soft. “You look kinda perched.”

“Uhm,” says the guy, stupid. Fiddling with his hat. Smile, dimples. “Uhm, sure? Whiskey, if you’ve got any.”

Jensen rises, heads to the bar. “Can’t promise it. But let’s see.”

More chuckling; boots on the floor. Jensen’s got his back turned, rummages through the supplies. “That’d been the first thing _I’d_ looked into.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“It’s yours,” he hears. An elbow on the mahogany, a peer at a watch. A wide gesture around the room. “All of it. I thought they told you.”

Jensen repeats, “I wasn’t _sure_ ,” and uncaps a good-looking bottle, pours. “Ice?”

Jared says, “Nah, thanks,” and Jensen stopped challenging for eye contact but is aware of Jared, staring at him, in his peripheral. Sees him pointing at the neat row of glasses, nodding towards Jensen. “Try it. It’s good.”

Jensen forgoes hesitation. Sets another glass down, fills it. Jared makes them clink glasses, doesn’t let Jensen’s face out of sight for a split second.

“To new beginnings.”

The whiskey burns in his mouth, his stomach. Jensen suppresses a cough; blinks.

“Good, right?” Jared leans on the bar, into Jensen’s space. Jensen allows it. Keeps his eyes pointed low, his shoulders relaxed.

“Yes, sir.”

“You can call me Jared, really.” (Sweat in the pit of that throat, those forearms.)

Jensen says, “Okay.”

The Alpha just grins, waits. Jensen doesn’t know for what. Can’t ask. Hears, finally, after what feels like minutes: “Drink.”

Jensen does that.

“Will you finish that bottle if I ask you to?” and Jensen looks at him for that.

Finds him—curious. Surprised, that Jensen would meet his eyes.

Jensen asks, “Do you want me to?” and Jared’s mouth slips open for a reprimand, an order, maybe. No chance to know for sure since it never comes.

Just—that smile, again. Droop of eyes, like he remembers something, and his hairline sits so high. Tanned all the way up his forehead, semi-deep wrinkles around his eyes, coarse-looking hairs on his knuckles, in the neckline of his button-down. Jensen’s stomach clenches around its lonely puddle of whiskey.

“Another time, maybe,” says Jared.

A handful of days until the next full moon, so it makes sense that someone would check on him. But Jared goes well beyond that: what he whips out over the ensuing minutes is basically a run-down of the entire actual event. Timestamps and when staff will get here, what they’ll take care of and what Jensen’s responsibilities are—not much, really, except for letting them in.

“My pack, we’re—well, it’s still a work in progress, but we’ve got a dozen A’s, give or take, including me,” and Jensen blinks, and he reels. Jared doesn’t press the issue, but it’s—huge, to give Jensen that kind of information. Stupid comfort, especially with a number like that, sure; but… _unusual_ , for a Prime, to say the least.

That nagging voice in the back of Jensen’s head keeps reminding that, despite what the Alpha said, this still might be a test.

“Of course, I mean—suitable A’s,” and Jensen’s tongue throbs warm. Jared mumbles into the rim of his glass. “Wasn’t easy, but I made sure all knuckleheads stay at home. Can’t risk any of that bullshit, not on your first moon.”

Jensen offers, “Thank you.”

Jared’s smile reappears. “No worries. You’ll thank me in a much better way, later.”

Jensen spends the rest of Jared’s stay avoiding those eyes. The unfamiliar buzz of alcohol doesn’t help keeping his tongue in line, but it _does_ help keeping his body language loose, smooth. Jared’s voice is—calm, lulls him in—careful. ( _Careful_ as in a cat plays _carefully_ with its prey, bounces it between its paws, before the inevitable comes. Jensen is smart enough not to fall for romantic lunacies.) The room gains more and more weight the longer Jared is in it, the longer their pheromones get a chance to interact, melt into one.

It’s—the books talked about that, for sure. Jensen blames the isolation, the lack of Alpha contacts within the Academy.

When Jared hefts himself off the sofa he had insisted they sit on for a more comfortable talk, Jensen doesn’t budge, keeps himself still through the distant panic. But Jared doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t force himself onto him in spite of what his scent says.

“If you need anything, call this number. They’ll see to it. You’ll get whatever you need.”

Jensen takes the card Jared gives him and can’t help but stare at that hand. The size of it—impressive, even without it holding a glass, dwarfing it. Long, rough fingers and a broad palm. It could hold both Jensen’s hands, easily.

Jensen mentions, “Thank you,” and forces himself not to peer out the door spy until the Alpha is out of sight.

~

His heat hits around twenty hours prior to the allocated event.

He throws back pills, forces down a glass of water. Sweat. He takes a bath, three. Meditation.

Jensen cowers by the phone, weighs it in his hands. Fever-hot, flushed; Jared’s card on the floor. He’d get his assistant, probably. Jensen sucks on ice cubes. Groans, naked on the tiles. The A/C is noiseless. A luxury.

By the time the house staff arrives, he’s both the most disheveled and closest to in control as he has been in the past twenty-four hours. A fluffy ankle-length bathrobe tight around him, summer just outside the door and he’s freezing, boiling. They say they’ve got it, don’t even worry, hun, and they push past him and do their things with Jensen lingering all humiliated and wet with his own juices, his sweat. He hides upstairs, closes the door. Guest bedroom, two pillows between his thighs, his knees.

When the door gets pushed open, Jensen stirs like he’s been asleep.

Darkness, still, again. Curtains; yeah, he did that. Jensen hides his face with his arms. Boots, those loud heels; commotion from outside, downstairs. Jensen’s senses narrow in on Jared’s familiar presence immediately.

A gentle shush; a pet to his hip, his leg.

Jared offers, “Need me to carry you?” A tug on Jensen’s robe when he shakes his head, sniffles. “C’mon, up you go. There he is. There’s our good boy.”

Jensen doesn’t recall getting his robe taken off of him but he knows he’s naked by the time they’ve made it outside. Outside as in—out of the back door. Into the garden, the huge stretch of botanica bleeding out into the adjacent park. The air is thick with summer, the persistent heat of the fading day (the herd of Alphas, lingering, leering, waiting). Jared’s hands cup his shoulders from behind, urge him to keep walking.

He sees, yet—doesn’t. A blur, wet, all of him reduced to—Jared, so close to him. The heat of his hands, the bass of his voice. Music, somewhere. Cicadas, glasses.

“You know the rules,” and Jensen nods even though it’s not him who’s addressed (why would they?), and he gasps when his face meets some sturdy surface; when Jared helps him crawl on top of—a table? Could be one of the ensembles he saw through the windows.

His hips arch right away, pure instinct to present, make himself available—and Jared shushes him again, presses one of those huge hands into the sore small of Jensen’s back. Jensen sobs for that, for the—God, everyone must be looking. At least three of them close, right now, seated at this table, maybe.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, I’m right here; I’ve got you.”

Hands grip at his ass and spread him wide open and that stops another wave of cramps mid-track, has Jensen keening. Hyper-aware of how empty he is, Jared’s soothing voice revs him up even more, makes the pressure even worse. Jared’s fingers make it better. Dig into his flesh, give him something to squirm against, relax into.

Distant tickle of Jared’s beard, then; his breath. Jensen gulps, tries to push away, escape—just for Jared to surge forward, hold him in place, breathe him in.

God, he’s _scenting_ _him_. His slick. His cunt.

Prey. Nothing but—

A rumble, then. Up close, against Jensen’s skin, and—that’s Jared’s voice, isn’t it? Pleased, and, oh, _oh_ —

A tongue, straight across his gash before it dips in, easy, greedy, and nobody’s touched Jensen since he’d left the Academy and his classes and he sobs because it hurts, because he _needs_.

“Like this,” he hears and nods, sniffles, lets it happen. Someone touches his face, his hair. While Jared keeps lapping into him, they—brush Jensen’s hair out of his face. Feel the plush of his lips, the wet of his tongue. A bunch of fingers in his mouth and he sucks as far as he can, and someone wipes a stray tear out of his lashes. Yes. Yes, good.

A low current of voices, illegible. The brand of Jared’s hands, still; Jared’s mouth. The pleased little noises whenever he pulls back just to dive in again, over and over. How he sighs and suckles.

Someone says, “So good,” and it doesn’t occur to him that it might have been himself until he finds Jared’s eyes, the blown black of them focused on nothing but Jensen.

“Yeah? Yeah, you like that?” and Jensen nods again, chokes around his moan as two of Jared’s fingers push into him, no preamble; and they curl and pump right into where he’s so sore and swollen and, _God_. God, he didn’t know it would—that it would— “Fuck, look at you. So beautiful. C’mon, let me. Open up, little one.”

The stretch is so so unfamiliar, so—perfect. Three and four fingers and Jensen shivers, rocks forward, away—gets pulled back, no way out. He feels his throat and mouth working while the Alpha pumps his fingers like Jensen is easy, like he’s anything but a virgin. Jared’s fingers spread and twist, turn and press. Heats usually leave him wet, but this is—his body knows it’s time. That it’s gonna happen.

He might have babbled some equivalent of _no_ because there’s a roar, and Jared’s free hand curls even tighter around Jensen’s hip, keeps him still and pinned as Jared folds his thumb into his palm, rocks his whole hand along and inside. Sweat, canine—someone’s getting their cock out, begins to stroke it close to him, somewhere.

Jensen’s slurred, “ _Fuck_ ,” when Jared’s hand pops into him for good, and there are stray cheers, but all Jensen is aware of is that—throb, deep inside. The insistent, overpowering stretch of Jared’s hands, forcing him into compliance, no matter what.

Out of breath himself, Jared agrees, “Yeah,” and lets go of Jensen’s hip only to bring his flat hand down over the spots his fingers had just been digging into. His other hand pushes deeper as Jensen yelps for the shock, the sting. The Alpha sets up an immediate cycle and Jensen can’t do much more than hang on, let it happen, let his body get manipulated.

His slick squelches loud, drools down his thighs, his ignored, heavy cock; it bubbles around Jared’s hairy wrist. Jensen sobs. Whenever he tries to fuck himself on Jared’s hand, the Alpha hits him that much harder. Caught in its instincts, of course his body wouldn’t know the difference. That this isn’t a knot, not a cock. By the time Jared curls his hand into a fist inside of Jensen, Jensen’s left ass cheek is numb with pain and he isn’t fighting anymore; can’t. He can smell Jared’s cock, still tucked safe inside those slacks of his (that dumb suit, crisp white shirt)—and Jensen mumbles for it, coos for it, until Jared’s punching him soft, robs him of his breath entirely.

“What? Take it out? My arm?” but all amusement bleeds from Jared’s next growl when Jensen corrects,

“Your _cock_ , Alpha; _please_ ,” and the next shove of that arm brings tears to Jensen’s eyes.

No more words, just—long thrusts of Jared’s arm that send Jensen jolting, convulsing deep inside. And yet, it doesn’t—not yet, not quite, like—something’s missing. Not enough.

Jared’s too-close gritted, “Here?” and his fingers flick out inside of Jensen, two, to grind into the hot clench of his pussy, ignoring his hymen, stretching it out. “Fuck, you’re tight,” and Jensen whimpers as those fingers retreat, leave him hanging. Babbles for them back and gets a bunch of snarls, a slap to his face.

“P-please, _please_ …!”

“Shit, he loves it.”

Something is close, just beyond Jensen’s grasp. He squirms despite the Prime’s hold, the bruise of those fingers. Despite the others grabbing his hair, cajoling, twisting his arms behind his back. He’d never thought he’d have the urge to bite anyone, ever.

Jared’s fist moves back further than before, and when it unfolds and proceeds to pull out of him for good, Jensen full-out _sobs_.

He mewls; he can’t. Everyone has a healthy laugh. They don’t know what this feels like. They don’t know anything.

More slaps to his ass, over his now even rawer-feeling hole. Jensen’s voice warps from pleads to snarls, clenched teeth. His head throbs with how tight they yank at his hair, press his cheek into the table. Every single one of them. He will make _everyone_ pay for this.

Too many hands—for an Omega, Jensen isn’t frail, is no lightweight, but they toss him to the ground so easily. With his arms no longer pinned he can push himself up but someone grabs his throat, pulls him instead. Jensen’s mouth floods; calm, easy, don’t fight it. He blinks up. Fairy lights, the distant glow of the fire pit.

Jared.

(Hair a lost cause. The night and the moon warp his face, the shape of his mouth.) A smile. Jared’s other hand comes up to cradle Jensen’s sore cheek, thumbs away sweat before it digs, grabs. Jensen’s teeth unclench on instinct, open his mouth.

On his knees on the concrete, his hands limp and throbbing and his shoulders aching, Jensen gives in, like they taught him. Taught so many before him, after him.

Let it happen. Let them.

His eyes flutter shut (he can focus on the rabbit-thump of his pulse against Jared’s still-clenched palm) as Jared presses his thumb into his mouth, the fever-swell of his tongue. Further, deeper, and Jensen doesn’t cough. Makes a noise, somewhere deep, trembles while his slick oozes down his taint and Jared either smells that or knows that because he steps even closer, makes Jensen truly crane his neck for him and pulls him higher by his throat, still. It’s quiet, Jensen thinks. Just his blood in his ears, the shift of Jared’s clothes.

One squeeze to his throat and Jensen looks up. Straight at Jared, their pack leader, _his_ pack leader, now—and so close to his dick, it’s unbearable, but it’s his place.

Jared growls so low, so feral, that Jensen bumps his chest into Jared’s thighs on his own accord.

His hands fly up, just to—hover over those shins.

He whines but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper, and Jared yanks at his throat for it, shakes him. Jensen gasps, can’t swallow. He tries.

His mouth moves to call for him—Alpha—but nothing; too strung-out, like Jared holds all the reins, like Jensen can’t even _breathe_ without Jared allowing it.

Just as Jensen’s fingertips touch Jared’s leg, Jared heaves him to his feet. One hand on his throat, the other hooked into his armpit, and—Jared slams their mouths together so hard, so abruptly, that it has less to do with pleasure than with pain. With dominance.

Teeth, and—it just hurts. Bites where the scrape isn’t enough, the rasp of Jared’s beard against the smooth-creamed skin of Jensen’s chin, around his mouth. Jared chokes him, still, and Jensen can’t think. Can’t move, not much, and to his utter shock his hands are cupped over Jared’s chest once he’s let up, once Jared wrenches them apart again; Jensen’s ass on the table, the Alpha up front, pinning him.

Jared’s nostrils flare wide while his mouth pinches tight, controlled. His eyes are just—dark, and. When that other hand joins the first around Jensen’s throat, death is so, so palpable. But Jensen can’t look away. Can’t _not_ lean into those hands, against—Jared.

Jared’s eyes jump back and forth between Jensen’s. A wall of heat, pressed up against Jensen, of sheer muscle hidden behind all that linen, the summer-thin coat of it. When Jensen opens his mouth, nobody told him to. He just— _needs_.

Jared’s eyes dip low before he spits, no warning.

It hits the back of Jensen’s throat and he hasn’t gagged for anything two weeks into the according class but it is _different_ , and he _chokes_ , and he—

It’s a tremble, head to toe. A shock that rolls through him, curls too-deep in his guts, and—he’s gripping Jared’s shirt, and Jared’s hands tighten further for it, and he doesn’t—Jared doesn’t understand until he _does_.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

Jensen can’t speak. Held up by Jared in his front and the table in his back, he seizes over and over. Jared only lets go of his throat when Jensen’s hands scramble to grab his wrists, when Jensen strangles out a weak, nearly-silent plea.

Jared’s cock pulses against Jensen’s hip.

“Oh, Jesus fucking _Christ_. How are you _real_ ,” and as Jensen still heaves, those fingers push back into his mouth, three at a time and down to the knuckle. Jared wrangles his pinkie in with a groan, the realization that, yeah, Jensen can take it.

Someone else: “Holy shit—seriously?”

“Boss, what the fuck. How the _fuck_ did you get your hands on this kinda premium shit pussy?”

Jared doesn’t acknowledge them, doesn’t even appear to hear them. Just growls, draws his brows together like it hurts when Jensen gains enough control to wrap his lips around his fingers, cleans his own slick off that hand. Jensen’s eyes water heavy but he swallows through it, keeps what little focus he has on Jared’s eyes, the tremble of that mouth, while his tongue maps those knuckles, the webbings between those fingers.

“Form a line. High ranks first.” (Jensen doesn’t understand until that hand pulls out of him, until Jared shoves him away, onto the table.) “Do me a favor and break him in, he—Jesus.” Jared wipes at the mess Jensen made against the side of his leg, his suit. He scoffs and looks down at Jensen once more with half a smile before he steps aside, makes way.

With that first, worst edge gone, it’s—not as bad. Only hurts a little when that first guy shoulders Jensen’s knee and pummels straight into him. Jensen yelps mainly for the shock. The classes covered all this.

They don’t knot him, at first. A quick succession of them, a flurry of bodies and hands and cocks. Jensen’s instincts reel, try to find his footing for him. Every touch, every smear of their precome and sweat gets Jensen more and more lightheaded all over again. Someone spits into his mouth again to see if he can come on demand just like that, but, of course, it doesn’t work. A small victory. Better than nothing.

The first knot is a younger girl’s. Blonde, wild curls and she gasps harder than Jensen when it catches, and she’s not small by any means but Jensen manages to clench around her on purpose nevertheless, has her shuddering and rolling her eyes on top of him. She doesn’t kiss him. Nobody does.

The moon calls to every Alpha’s instincts—to breed, to satisfy. Jensen keeps his hands to himself as best he can but they bite him, still. Arms and face and thighs. They don’t fuck him to get him off, just to chase their own pleasure. Which is fine. Jensen prefers it that way.

It’s—bad enough, really. How sluggish he feels, how—how _starved_. He doesn’t want them to know that. Doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of—owning him, that way.

In the clearer moments, he finds himself—looking. For Jared. Finds him, always—watching, from afar. Holding back or just—waiting. That fire. The constant drag of hands on his skin, the sick squelch of them relieving their needs. It doesn’t mean a thing. Not really.

“Yeah. You love it,” and the Alpha’s thrusts stumble for being addressed, for hearing—Jensen, talking to them. (Just stupid babbles, really. God, he’s empty.) “You love my pussy, don’t you?”

“Fuck,” and maybe it had been supposed to come off goading, but they—tremble. Repeat, softer, weaker, “ _Fuck_ ,” and Jensen chortles as their knot swells rapidly, barely a few strokes into the fun. He gets his face punched for it. He doesn’t care.

They don’t expect him to talk, to enjoy what’s happening. Whatever pack Omega they had before, Jensen is gonna wipe out those memories for good. Will replace them, own them. Take them over, all of them.

Mated, most of them. Claiming marks and their mates’ watery Beta-scents hover without a threat. Jensen might not know what they’ll be going home to, but he knows what they’ll think about buried balls-deep in their husbands and wives. _Whom_ they’ll think about.

They scratch him, pinch him. He moans, lets them. Arches and curls and goes soft, lets them hammer into him as much as they like, as hard as they like. Nothing hurts. Everything just—melts, inside. That tight coil of pleasure, buried deep. A maddening itch none of them seem to be able to scratch, only _feed_ into it, help it grow.

“Come in me, come on—fuck, I know you want to—!”

“Fuck, shut the fuck up—!”

“Fuck, yeah, do it—so close, aren’t you—I can _tell_ ,” and they shove him forward, then, bury him under their weight and their knot is the biggest so far (or Jensen’s just very low on oxygen and insane with it), and it’s—God, it’s good, all seated and thick and another gush of come, thick and gooey and sloshing in his ass, his pussy. So much of it, over and over, oozing out, getting fucked back in, being fed to his mouth, right down his throat.

Jensen sobs with it, the thrill of it. The growl of the Alpha on top of him, the slap of their meaty hand across Jensen’s mouth—a slap before it wrenches down, shuts him up. Fingers him once the Alpha’s peak flares out to something more mellow, cruel. Shoves of hips that knock that knot around in him, threaten to pull him inside out. Jensen’s breath is garbled around the fingers in his throat, between his teeth.

The pull-out is wet. If he wasn’t so fucking out of it, Jensen might feel embarrassed. The next guy lines up and slides balls-deep in one smooth push. Jensen groans, hitches back, ignores the oversensitive snarl, the needy pulse of that cock nestled all tight and wet.

Grumbled, “Doesn’t _feel_ like eight inches, dude,” and someone splutters, and someone else breaks into a laugh, and the Alpha in question is not—happy. To say the least. But it doesn’t matter. “I can make it work though—how ’bout you lay back, let me do the work.”

He laughs himself when he is let up. Gets what he wants.

He sits down, coos stupid. Gets his tits pinched for it with no tease in mind, all violence—and grunts, closes his eyes, rocks his hips. A snarl from below and he flexes, tugs at the Alpha’s exposed nipples like they’re no Alpha at all.

He nearly gets thrown off for that.

“Fucking bitch,” and a backhand, and Jensen feels kinda sore but he moans, delighted. That knot plumps hot and fast and the Alpha groans in humiliation. Keeps Jensen’s hips grabbed tight while they unload, while Jensen milks it out of them with exerted swivels of his hips.

With the first dire needs taken care of, indulgence settles in. Makes everyone cruel, high.

Jensen hates that they catch him off-guard, that his face derails and pales when someone climbs up top behind him while another is already fucking him; as they thread their cock in alongside the other. He wails—they hold him down. Stretch his mouth from behind, two fingers into each corner of his mouth and _pulling_ , laughing—snapping their hips, forcing Jensen’s guts into acceptance.

The one from below curls his hand around his neck and pinches him into submission. Jensen feels his eyes and insides flutter for it, stammer for it—another gush of slick from his dick, the stretched-out carnage of his asshole.

Someone taps his cheek, his nose. Jensen turns towards the touch and the fingers wrenching his mouth open eventually retreat as his lips push forward to close around that offered bottle of water. Lukewarm. Heavenly.

That hand pets his cheek, cradles his face while he drinks in greedy, full gulps. The other two Alphas keep fucking him, jostle him between them, against that hand.

Alpha. Jared. Jensen doesn’t have to look to know.

Jared smells like fresh clothes, a recent shower. Jensen imagines, delirious, that he’s seen these sweatpants before in one of the closets upstairs. He blinks up, swallows the last mouthful of water. Licks his lip and thusly Jared’s thumb which drags across his lip, his chin. Jared chuckles. God. God, Jensen wants him.

“You wanna mess up these as well, huh?” (Jared wrenches his face back out of his crotch, the clearly-there swell of his huge cock. Jensen moans for the loss.) “What a messy boy.”

Jensen hates that there are two cocks rubbing him stupid inside but all his pussy cares for is the scratch of Jared’s fingers through his hair, the soft click of his tongue, the purse of his lips. Goosebumps just for—Jared, wiping his overgrown hands across Jensen’s face to tame his hair at least a little, wipe away at least _some_ of that sweat. Jensen moans into that palm. Rocks back onto the two cocks drooling him even wetter inside; that darling, soft laugh of Jared, belittling him. Adoring him.

Love me. Fill me. Own me.

“Fuck, I—”

“Me too, just—God, pull out, I can’t knot like this—”

An awkward struggle ensues, but Jared allows Jensen to bury his face in his extra-soft tee, against the steel of his lower belly. Jensen sucks his breath over the faint promise of Jared’s pubes with Jared’s hands wrapped around his head, keeping him where he is. One of the Alphas knots him while the other is forced to just keep their cock inside halfway, gets their pleasure cut short (even if intense, snatched up so snug against someone else). A pained mewl, not much different than Jensen’s, earlier, and Jensen hopes Jared can feel him smiling.

The next throb from the knotted tie forces the other Alpha out with an embarrassing squelch. Jensen gasps, grabs for Jared’s wrist. Feels that expensive-looking watch, the soft hairs on Jared’s arm. Jared doesn’t reprimand him.

Jensen whispers, “Fuck,” and Jared hums in agreement like they’re already fucking. Like he knows Jensen is gasping for the smell of the cock currently throbbing sweet and tame somewhere below his throat instead of the ones creaming him up inside. “Fuck, I hope you’re ready. I hope you’re—fucking ready for me,” and the Alpha below him stirs, push-pulls him on their knot. Jared isn’t going anywhere. “After everything, I’m still—still—!”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Jensen nods into Jared’s hand with his mouth open. “Fuck, who’s next? Which of you fuckers is next, huh?” and Jared’s hand fists into his hair for that in a kind warning but it’s good, and Jensen shudders. His eyes are still shut, still useless. All he needs is his nose, his mouth. “God, fuck me. _Fuck me already_.”

Growls, too-close. Jared’s hands curl tighter around Jensen’s head; one from below grabs him by the throat, chokes him quiet. Jared barks, “Knock it off, all of you,” and Jensen growls despite the stranglehold, the pressure of Jared forcing his mouth to stay the fuck _shut_. “Ranks? _Ranks_ , guys, come on, it’s not that hard.”

“The mouth on that one,” someone says.

Jensen hears Jared sending the others away to the showers while the next participant climbs him from behind, takes him all classic, doesn’t allow any bullshit. Jensen takes it, grits his teeth. The residual warmth of Jared’s touch fades too soon and leaves him dry, alone.

What time is it, even? It’s still dark, no dawn in sight.

What a relief it is to get those hands back. Have them pulling at him, guiding him. Jensen can hear the music again, distant and thrumming and Jared kisses him again, less like a punch this time.

Tongue and lips and Jared is soft, inside. Lets Jensen shove his hand into the front of his sweats and grab his cock, feel it, moan for it.

Jensen’s knees pull towards his chest on instinct. Jared doesn’t have to do much but move in, get close; hands on the table while Jensen gets his dick out for him, strokes him hungry and artless.

It’s still new-feeling when Jared’s hips dig forward. When Jensen has to hold him steady so he doesn’t slip, when he blooms raw around the hot-fat head of that cock that keeps pushing in, and in, and—into his pussy, too, just—not stopping. Not waiting.

Jared’s mouth keeps sucking at him long after Jensen withdraws his hand, keeps it on Jared’s pelvis instead. Just fingertips, just—lost, and. God, he’s big. He’s so fucking big.

A shove, and Jensen whimpers. Gets the Prime snuffling into his hairline, behind his ear. The crunch of sneakers grounding themselves on the concrete, the weight and heat of Jared’s clothed body on top of him, moving _in_.

“I can’t, I _can’t_ ,” but that doesn’t matter. Not to Jared.

Grinding and pushing gets him there. Gets him pushed up so deep Jensen can’t help but sob.

Someone blurts, “Jesus.”

Someone else gets close, slathers additional lube where Jared pulls out just as much as he can possibly bear. The next push is easier than the last. Jared groans. Can’t move.

“Y-you’re so—I’m—”

Jared leans in to kiss him, to swallow the rest. Jensen whimpers and curls around him.

The slow start is what ends Jensen, really. That insistent, deep throb of Jared’s cock right up against his cervix, how it pushes everything back and up inside Jensen’s body, rearranging him. The promise of how much more Jared can do with it, _will_ do with it, the heat of Jared’s breath, pressed so so close.

Different than before, and yet not. A slower wave of it all, this time, creeping down his spine and centering where Jared is forcing him open, where Jensen’s muscles spasm and lock without control, egg the Alpha on, pull him—even deeper, it seems. Like they’ll never be able to stop again after this.

Shaken by his too-slow, too-intense orgasm, Jensen wails. Claws into Jared’s back just to get shushed, just to get fucked stricter, quicker. Deep, steady snaps of Jared’s hips that send the fat veins on his cock right across every sweet spot Jensen’s insides have to offer, that make the massive head of it catch on the too-tight sphincter in Jensen’s pussy on every stroke—Jensen doesn’t stand a chance.

Jared fucks him through it. Keeps him down, easy; unimpressed by any attempt to squirm, move. Slurred nothings between breaths, somewhere below Jensen’s own voice, his whines for more, stop, I can’t, please.

Jared unfolds them eventually but doesn’t stop.

Keeps Jensen’s wrists in his hands to use as a handle, pulls him back onto his cock with it. Sends Jensen’s teeth clattering, his eyes overflowing. He’s knocking into him hard enough that Jensen wouldn’t doubt he is fucking straight into his womb right now. His lower stomach bulges dangerously, obviously.

“Oh, _God_ ,” but Jared bears down on him then, leans in and gets his mouth over the side of Jensen’s throat and Jensen can’t tell if he’s screaming for the knot or the bite.

He sobs for both, though.

For the not-so-gentle suckle of Jared’s mouth, like his goal is to drink Jensen empty. Like he was capable of removing everything that isn’t him and replacing it.

It takes a moment for his knot to fully pop, to truly get caught. He grinds it in and in until Jensen shudders apart on it again, sends his cunt milking him perfect and only _then_ does he allow himself to follow along.

Jensen only knows he’s passed out because Jared has to love-tap him rather violently for him to wake back up. He moans, confused—still locked. Jared is still coming.

“Hey. Hey,” all soft; that pinch to Jared’s brow. Curling in, shielding Jensen’s face with his hands, his body. Breathing the same air, lips just apart, panting. Jensen closes his eyes.

His hands slip from around Jared’s shoulders down his massive back. (Still that tee, now soaked in sweat.) Over those flanks, his own knees—between them, up Jared’s chest.

Jensen has to nudge their noses together before Jared understands and kisses him. Lets Jensen suck on his lip, his tongue, and groans for it. His cock flexes hard inside Jensen’s pussy, empties another gush of his come. Jensen helps him out of his tee; they toss it somewhere, anywhere. Distant goodbyes, whistles. Jared grunts at someone to fuck the hell off, Palicki. Air kisses, giggles.

“If you told me,” and that’s right up against Jensen’s cheek, his ear. “If you told me, right now, that you’re all out, I think I could—I could survive that. I think. Can’t promise it, though.” Jensen laughs. Feels Jared’s smile, the drag of those teeth where they want to close in on, again. Whispered, “Tell me I can.” A soft roll of hips, the ever-solid weight of Jared’s knot. “Tell me to fuck you. Tell me to make you come again.”

Jensen half-moans into Jared’s mouth. Gets eaten out of, the deep push of Jared’s tongue well into the back of his throat. A mirror to what’s happening below. To the again-growing range of Jared’s thrusts.

“Take it,” he mumbles. Jared’s hair is in his mouth, his nose. He can’t care. “’S all yours. Take it. Take your pussy.”

Jensen can’t blame the guy for buying into an offer like that.

~

Jared insists that no, I swear, that side of the closet has _always_ been filled with spares for him. Not his choice or anything, Dora figures this stuff out and doesn’t even ask him, she’s amazing and all but sometimes she thinks he’s smarter than him and—stop laughing, goddammit; I _swear_ , Jensen.

Jared’s socks, stuffed into crevices of a sofa. His hair in the drains, the pillowcases.

Jensen curls, uncurls, on the sun-flooded floor of the living room (“Seriously? We buy you three beds and _this_ is where you want to sleep?”). The phone is ringing, somewhere. He’ll get to it in just a minute.

The A/C. The growing library, hidden away under one of the least used beds (they’re all kinda used by now, thanks to their Prime). The sugar-loaded soda, forgotten on one of the beautiful, useless side tables. The giant fridge. The untouched stove.

The phone rings again. Jared, probably. On his way already, probably. Jensen should get up, maybe, take a shower. In a minute, though. Just another minute.

Reminiscing on last week, he smiles. That entire day of just—them. Jared, staying over, postponing every meeting, switching his phone to silent. Those hours of peace, tangled up in each other. Jared, cooing stupid promises; combing his fingers through the silk of Jensen’s hair.

How hard it gets, day by day, to remind himself—what this is. What he is. What is expected of him.

All those years spent with the others, huddled up close and strict, and how cruel it all had been—it seems so far away, now. Like a bad dream. Like he finally got to wake up.

Jensen stretches, rolls over. His palm finds his stomach, his lower belly. He keeps it there, fans his fingers wide. Again, he smiles. Wider, this time.

Jared, unmated and sunflower-eyes and that smile. Always that—smile on him.

Those acres and acres of land. Laws and connections, egg white omelets and you know I can’t come to the phone at this hour. The guns, the firm smiles of the housekeepers. I’ve never felt like this for anyone else, Jensen. Hands and knees. Don’t ask any questions. Don’t talk back.

Jensen yawns and scratches where the chip itches in his arm. The phone rings again. His grunts don’t make it stop.

“All right, all right; one second.”


End file.
